Shelter
by matanee
Summary: What does John do when he finds Sherlock in his room three years after the famous 'Fall? How can they deal with their sorrow after all those lonely days? Rating T just in case for cursing. Nothing serious. Also a bit slashy, not that much.


I was listening to the song 'Shelter' by Birdy and I got inspired. I have things to learn and it's not the perfect piece of art I suppose, but reviews would feel really good right now, and I'd be truly grateful.

_I own nothing, and unfortunately, Sherlock doesn't belong to me. Neither Benedict Cumberbatch or Martin Freeman. _

But still, I hope you enjoy it. : )

**Shelter**

_"I find shelter in this way_

_Under cover, hide away..."_

_"What the..."_

The dark was pitch-black, not a single ray of light anywhere. It sent a shiver down his spine, and suddenly the air felt so cold he could swear it gave him goosebumps. He remembered crystal clearly that he didn't leave this room like this the last time he came here.

And it could've meant two things at least.

First, Mrs Hudson had come in and made a dungeon from the former detective's room, which wasn't quite possible since she was still mourning over him. She wouldn't have had the power to do such a thing.

Which led the doctor and ex-soldier to the most possible conclusion: somebody else has done it.

It might have been Mycroft. And it really wouldn't be that surprising, considering how little he would talk to John about anything that is in connection with his brother. He, however, wouldn't bother with things like that - he probably sent 'Anthea' to do the dirty work for him. It's so Mycroft. Guilt is a bitch.

"Shit!"

The silent curse almost made an echo in the cave-like room when the doctor woodenly hit his toe in some unidentified furniture, but it didn't stop him from searching for the light switch determinedly.

"Where the hell..."

"Don't."

A low baritone. That was the only thing needed to make John froze to the very spot and make him breathless. No, not a low baritone, more likely _the_ low baritone. The voice that could belong to only one man in the whole existence.

It was impossible. _Utterly_ impossible.

"Don't turn on the lights, John. Please."

It almost sounded casual, but softer than it ever did before. John was standing absolutely still, with undeniable shock in his whole body. It was his lucky day since in the dark no one could see that, actually.

"Oh my God."

It wasn't quite accurate, but still... It was a totally understandable reaction. At least for the owner of the low baritone, it was.

"Would you please just... do me a favour and close the door then sit down and listen to me? Do not freak out. It doesn't suit you anyway."

The disbelief in the short laugh that John made was palpable, and the first shock just dematerialized. The doctor felt confused and angry now, maybe a little bit betrayed. And although deep, deep in his soul, he was happy and relieved as well, but every single cell in his body denied that.

"_Don't freak out, _huh?" He suddenly smashed the door with the strength that it almost fell out of its place, and although the doctor never tried to turn on the lights again, he felt so angry he actually believed he could light up the room with his own energy.

"Could you just do as I say?"

"Last time I've done that and I had to watch you fall off from that bloody rooftop! What do you have _now_, a gun pointed to your forehead?"

"John -"

"Sherlock _freaking_ Holmes, you are the greatest bastard in the world if you believe I'm ever going to trust you with _anything_ again!"

"Then for the last time, please, just... Listen to me, okay? Then I will let you beat me as badly as you want, but first... Let me talk, will you?"

He wanted to punch him in the face indeed, but he just gave in and sat down, with his back leant to the doorframe. He could wait for a bit longer, couldn't he?

"As you see, or... more likely, hear, I'm not dead," Sherlock started unromantically, clearing his throat. "I'm not an illusion, a ghost, a look-alike... I've never died."

"Apparently..." John muttered with eyes fixed on the floor, although he didn't see anything.

"Could you please just shut up until I finish?"

"Go on," he shrugged lazily like he didn't even care, but he was more and more unpredictable with every passing moment. His hands were shaking, his stomach was filled with giant butterflies, and he felt like fainting. It was worse than the war itself.

"Moriarty gave me a choice. I could've just walked away, but then... I should've watched as his snipers kill you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. The other option was me commiting suicide and save your lives. I guess you would've chosen this one as well."

"You bloody idiot."

"You just can't stop your little commentaries, can you?"

"It doesn't change the fact that you're an idiot."

"John."

"Okay, sorry," John sighed and was actually surprised that he could deal with this kind of shock only if he talked. He reached the point where he didn't care what Sherlock was saying but only that he actually _spoke. _He spoke to _him_, to his doctor - the real, living Sherlock. John dreamed about this before, every night for three years, and he could hardly believe it was happening right now, in real life, in the present. Yet, this whole 'staying in the dark' thing made him anxious, that's why he couldn't stop talking to him. Or simply, it was his best excuse.

"Aren't you even interested how did I survive the fall?"

"I can't talk, can I?" John asked, trying desperately to restrain his growing anger, but doesn't matter how hard he wanted to see a tiny detail of the other man, it was useless. It only made his eyes hurt.

"I had a plan with Molly. We expected that I probably would have to die, so..."

"Wait. She knew all of this? Molly Hooper knew you were alive and I didn't?"

John's voice sounded truly offended for the first time, so the answer didn't come quickly. It was hell of a thunder inside him right now, and although Sherlock couldn't see him he could easily deduce it from the way John's voice sounded. He was his flatmate for months, after all.

"I'm sorry."

"You do?"

"Of course, John, don't be ridiculous. Do you think I enjoyed being away for three years? Or that my call was a joke?"

"You mean, your note? Yeah, you know, now if I look back at these years, it all seems like a bloody joke. Your confession about being a liar? Yes, it is the biggest joke I've ever heard, Sherlock. And the biggest load of shit."

"Then talk, John. Tell me everything. I'm listening and I won't interrupt. I promise."

Sherlock just gave up. He knew he deserved every inch of John's hard earned anger and it couldn't have been totally erased. These three years were way too long to disappear from their memories, and they both knew how much suffering they had to survive. But it was over, and it was time to face the outcome of the destruction. And it was John's turn now.

"Oh well, where should I start? Maybe with your funeral when I was talking to an empty coffin and a fake gravestone?" John asked on a hysterical voice. Sherlock had never heard him talking like that before, but he stayed silent and closed his eyes in pain. "Or... Maybe when I tried to overdose myself with sleeping pills on several occasions two years ago? Or are you interested in my love life which is a total disaster by the way? Did you know I was dumped _five_ times because I accidentally called my girlfriends on _your_ name? It was great, since I am still not gay, thank you very much."

Short pause, and then part two. Another deep breath, but this time the doctor's voice broke as soon as he started talking.

"And then, your brother. He was the cause of your 'death' in the first place and yet, he acts like you've never existed. I guess Donovan and Anderson hosted a house party while I was drinking with Harry a week after your jump!" John really tried to hold back the tears of desperation, so he stopped for a moment, and continued on a more stable voice. "I wanted to burn up this whole place in my mind for a thousand times at least, but I was never able to do it. And you know what is the worst part? That despite the fact that I was so hopeless and lonely... I still waited for you. For three years, Sherlock. I was talking to you like you were there, hoping you would answer when I don't expect. Sometimes you did, and I thought I went crazy. And I just... That's it, I guess. I don't know what else to say, really."

There was a momentary silence between them, hanging in the air like the silent rain after storm. And then, suddenly, a faint light in the dark - so fast John could not make out what it was, but it made him jump a little bit.

"Read them."

The light belonged to a mobile phone and it flew over the room just to land in John's hands after he reached out for the object with a clumsy move. It was the same mobile as always and it sent a warm shiver down on John's spine. It was the 'Drafts' folder, messages that were composed but never sent. 14 messages.

_Bring me tea, I have to calm down my nerves. - SH_

_Bored. - SH_

_Where the _bloody_ hell are you? You went to the Tesco's an hour ago. - SH_

_And you forgot milk, of course. - SH_

_Go back now and get some milk. You will forget it tomorrow. - SH_

_I told you. - SH_

_I threw that penny in front of you and you didn't even notice it. It'd bring you luck you idiot. - SH_

_Some woman just found it. Congratulations, missed opportunity. - SH_

_I knocked on the door, no one heard. Are you in the bathroom? - SH_

_I want to go home. - SH_

_Ignore the previous message. - SH_

_And this one too. - SH_

_I miss your tea. - SH_

_I'm going to come back soon, I promise. Wait for me, John. - SH_

Before he could notice John's eyes got so watery the characters on the phone's screen got blurry and unreadable, like he was looking at it through an ocean. These messages were written over the past 3 months, which means...

"You've been around for 3 months and you haven't even told anyone?" John asked with renewable disbelief in his voice, trying to ignore the pitched tone at the end. He didn't sound so harsh anymore. He didn't want to cry, but he was getting dangerously close to the line.

"Only Mycroft knew. I wanted to remain invisible after I cleaned up the mess Moriarty has made and destroyed his web absolutely. I could not have loose ends, or else I would've put you in danger again."

John didn't know what to say. Was there any appropriate reaction to all of this? He could've stayed angry and confused but it would've had no use at all. Sherlock was broken, it was obvious now. And it hurt John, more than anything.

"I want to turn on the lights."

After some more silence and a few deep breaths, Sherlock cleared his throat and John took it as a 'yes'. He slowly found his balance once he could stand up successfully, and started searching for the light switch on the wall. He found it pretty soon, but didn't turn the light on just right away.

He was afraid. He was afraid of what he might see if he turns around, he was afraid of looking at him again, he was afraid that he wasn't really there and it's only a dream. He knew he wouldn't be able to handle it anymore, and if it really was just a sick trick of his own imagination, he'd want to linger here for a little bit longer, just to enjoy the moment.

"John?"

"Don't, Sherlock. I'm... almost ready."

"Just listen to me, okay?"

His voice was so soft and patient like John had never heard him talking before, and he slowly let his arm fall back to his side, still standing in the dark without a sound. What did he expect from this whole situation? Why wouldn't Sherlock let John see him? It was ridiculous. It was childish. It was _so_ Sherlock, and he missed it _so_ much.

"I perfectly know what I've put you through, and I'm really sorry. Mycroft told me everything about you. I told him to keep an eye on you, but I've never thought it would be so hard for you. And you know that I'm not really good with emotions, but -"

"You don't have to do this. You don't have to... act. Just come here and... I don't know. Put your hand on my shoulder," John rambled with accelerating, heavy breaths and slowly closed his eyes. "So I'd know you're real and... When I turn on the lights you'd be still here. Please, just do this for me."

Sherlock didn't answer but the doctor could hear the noise of his vague movements. His silent steps made the echo of a symphony orchestra in his head, and the room started spinning around him when the younger man slowly touched his shoulder. John shuddered and a barely hearable sigh left his mouth while Sherlock's grip slightly tightened. He caught the doctor off-guard when he carefully turned him around, and although he did knew very well that despite his opened eyes he wouldn't see anything, he opened them anyway. His whole body trembled and his jaw dropped half opened when the detective slowly touched his cheekbone, and a shocked 'what the hell are you doing' was just on his tongue when he suddenly felt the other's breath on his lips. Why was he so close?

"Sherlock..." he tried to protest with his last sober thought but it was barely a whisper and it most certainly couldn't stop Sherlock. Before John could've done anything else to stop him, Sherlock's lips carefully touched his, and the world just stopped spinning.

He always thought it would be awkward. To kiss a man... It never was a possibility. But now, it was most definitely about to change. They didn't control the situation anymore. Sherlock's fingers crept to John's neck and from there to the back of his head just to pull him closer, and the doctor closed his eyes slowly.

Why did it feel so normal? He _wasn't_ gay, he was certain of it, but it seemed Sherlock was the only exception. Their lips moved in such a consonance like they've been made for each other from the dawn of their lives, and when John's lips parted and their tongues met, the doctor absentmindedly grabbed Sherlock's coat and shoved himself closer to him. The detective tasted like cigarette, tea and menthol, and his perfume found its way to John's lungs right away. And to his memory as well.

A silent whimper almost left John's mouth as Sherlock slowly pushed him to the wall and let his hand stray right through his dark-brown curls. The kiss got more passionate and the detective put his free arm around John's waist just to meet his hips with his own. They fit so perfectly like two pieces of a puzzle, and they both felt ridiculously stupid about trying to deny this bond before. It wasn't something that should be ashamed. They felt proud now, and all of their loneliness disappeared together with the misery of three whole years. Everything else seemed small and irrelevant, even after Sherlock pulled away, catching his breath rapidly.

John didn't know what to say and he had a feeling that the detective felt the same way, so he just opened his eyes. And then, he saw Sherlock's perfect face. His eyes were shining and glimmering with joy and lust, both of them sparkling like supernovas, and the situation was so perfect John could do nothing but let a small smile appear on his face.

"Looks like you found the light switch," he noted, not noticing his hands sliding down to Sherlock's chest. The detective's quickly pounding heart was in total synchrony with his own, and it made them both equally calm.

The smile on Sherlock's face as a response gave John goosebumps, and he didn't know when he started to feel these things next to this man, but he didn't really care right now. The next four words just burned into his very soul, and he thought he'd never heard anything more beautiful before.

"It led me home."

_"Can you hear when I say_

_I have never felt this way..."_


End file.
